


I will weave your hair like wefts of a song (I know the laws of the world and I will gift them to you)

by naivesilver



Series: You're as careless as me (But time could never fight us) - Wish!Realm Emma&Pinocchio Fics [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Pinocchio, Brother-Sister Relationships, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, Protectiveness, Wishverse (Once Upon a Time), first attempt at merging ouat!pinocchio's story with the book one, mentions of past trauma, stay tuned for more self indulgent idiocy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naivesilver/pseuds/naivesilver
Summary: “What?” Pinocchio stammers, caught off guard. “Princess, what are you doing here?”“Ssssh!” She hisses, curling even further on herself. She’s huddled on the floor behind a workbench, the skirts of her fine dress pooling around her and probably catching any speck of dirt left on the ground. “I’m hiding.”Cut out of a court-wide celebration, Pinocchio finds himself in the company of an unexpected tagalong.
Relationships: Pinocchio | August Booth & Emma Swan
Series: You're as careless as me (But time could never fight us) - Wish!Realm Emma&Pinocchio Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173974
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	I will weave your hair like wefts of a song (I know the laws of the world and I will gift them to you)

Pinocchio knows there’s been an intruder the moment he steps inside the workshop.

It’s not that he senses it as much as he notices misplaced objects around the room, tools that aren’t where they’re supposed to be and wood shavings strewn all over the floor even though he made sure to sweep it thoroughly just a few hours ago. Whoever it was, it doesn’t look like they’ve taken anything, but rather poked and prodded at things to their heart’s delight.

Nothing suggests there might be trouble in sight. For all he knows, it might have been a client come to call on Geppetto, or a stray cat, putting its paws where it shouldn’t - heaven knows the castle is overrun by them, though Father always refused to take in another one, after they had to leave Figaro behind. And yet, he tenses all the same, hairs rising on the back of his neck. It’s been years since their land was threatened by anything stronger than a snowstorm, but even a full decade wouldn’t have been enough for him to learn how to lower his guard at the drop of a hat.

Pinocchio might have been just a child the last time a magical creature tried to maim him or someone close to him, but he remembers the sheer terror he felt well enough not to want it to happen ever again, especially not in the supposed safety of his own home.

“Is anyone there?” He calls out, making his way inside. “Father?”

But it can’t be his father, because he was the one to send Pinocchio back to the workshop in the first place, claiming there were some jobs that needed to be finished. It wasn’t a lie, strictly speaking – there’s always work to be done, and the next few years will count as his apprenticeship, even though he’s under his own father’s supervision. It’s only fair that any menial job would be handed over to him.

It wasn’t a lie, but it was not the full truth, either. All those minor repairs could have waited until Pinocchio had gotten a good look at the parade of nobles that are currently visiting court, but Geppetto is not so eager to have his son around during council meetings anymore, now that said son is too old for playing quietly on the floor and letting adults talk over his head. It’s as though the man were worried that Pinocchio might shame him somehow, might forget his courtesies or cause a spectacle in front of any guest in attendance – which is ridiculous on multiple fronts, considering Pinocchio hasn’t willingly put himself under the spotlight once since Mangiafuoco and that he’s spent most of his life surrounded by people of far higher status than them both. Surely he’s learned enough by now to hold his own in any conversation, even taking his early months of recklessness into account.

Besides, he’d planned to listen more than talk, if granted permission to stay around. He’d been so eager to hear stories of those men’s faraway lands, places he’s never seen and whose wonders can’t possibly be as cruel as the ones he’s seen on his travels, and it nearly drives him insane that he’s not like to get close enough to even eavesdrop.

He’s so focused on his own annoyance that he almost neglects to pay proper attention to his surroundings. Almost. But then he hears a shuffling noise, and he whips around, cursing himself for not having thought of picking up something that he might use as a weapon –

And finds himself staring right into Princess Emma’s big, worried blue eyes.

“What?” Pinocchio stammers, caught off guard. “Princess, what are you doing here?”

“Ssssh!” She hisses, curling even further on herself. She’s huddled on the floor behind a workbench, the skirts of her fine dress pooling around her and probably catching any speck of dirt left on the ground. “I’m hiding.”

“Hiding? From who?”

“Mama. She’s looking for me.”

Pinocchio’s shoulders drop as relief floods him. Nothing to fear, then. No monster on the prowl, looking for a little girl on castle grounds. Just a tantrum, or the aftermath of it, at least.

“Why are you hiding from your lady mother?” He asks, crouching down so he can be on eye level with her. “Did something happen?”

Emma sniffles, crossing her arms on her chest. “There’s people visiting, from another kingdom. And they have their sons with them. When they bring their sons they always want me to play with them, and then start talking about me _marrying_ them.”

There’s all the outrage a girl of six can muster in her voice, and Pinocchio struggles not to laugh in her face. “Well, that doesn’t sound good” he says instead, evenly, as though it were a matter of the utmost importance. “But would it be so bad if you tried to be friends with them? They might be good allies to have in the future, when you are queen.”

He has to choose his words carefully, as not to plant any ideas in the princess’ mind that might prompt her to turn her wrath on those poor foreign children. It’d be hysterical if a woodcarver’s son like him were to ignite a royal scandal, even though none of the people involved can be older than ten.

Well, it would be hysterical for _him_. His father and those kids’ ambitious parents might not find it nearly half as amusing.

He has nothing to fear, though, for Emma clearly wants nothing to do with his diplomatic approach. “No!” She exclaims, then looks frantically over her shoulder and lowers her voice, as though a guardsman were waiting around the corner to catch her in the act. “I tried talking to them, but they were so mean – they said all sorts of ugly things about our castle and our lands, and they think they’re so much better than us. But Mama said I had to play with them anyway, so I ran away and hid here. It was empty, and I thought it would be alright with you.”

It is, in truth, because all things considered, Pinocchio genuinely likes Emma. The King and Queen are not the kind of people who might forbid their daughter from playing with their subjects’ children, and the princess has the run of the whole castle, so they’ve seen each other quite a lot in the past few years. And there’s something to be said about being entrusted with the care of someone younger than him, in that it made Emma loyal to him to a fault, as protective of him as he is to her in her clumsy, childish way.

Other boys his age would be annoyed at having a little girl trail after them night and day, but he doesn’t care much. It’s not like he has many other friends to turn to, after all, and as far as little girls go, Emma is a clever, kind one, who gapes in delight at their finished pieces when she manages to sneak into the workshop and looks at him as though he knew the answer to every question in the world.

It’s not something he’s used to see directed at him. Or at anything he does, for that matter.

“I don’t mind” he replies, when he notices the princess is still staring at him anxiously, waiting for the verdict. “But my father will probably warn your parents if he comes back and finds us here.”

As would everyone with an ounce of sense roaming the castle at this time of day. His father is much more lenient with little kids than he is with older ones, but if he’s still with Snow White and the visiting party, as Pinocchio suspects he is, then he’s most likely been swept up in an attempt to avoid a diplomatic accident in the form of a missing princess. And the boy is not the only one who distinctly remembers what went down during the war with the Evil Queen: while no one would dare hurt the realm’s delight here, it’s possible that her parents are working themselves up to a panic anyway, afraid to lose her to some enemy lurking in the dark.

Emma lets out a horrified gasp at the idea of being dragged out of her safe spot so soon, though, so he holds up a placating hand. “It’s okay. I think I know someplace better we can hide.”

“Really?”

He grins conspiratorially at her, pleased to see her smiling back. “Promise.”

She takes his hand and lets herself be pulled to her feet without another word. Pinocchio leads her upstairs, to his own room, and shuts the door behind his back, carefully wedging a piece of wood underneath to keep it still. His father will most certainly be mad if he’s the one to find them, for he’d be quick to interpret this as an act of defiance towards the king and queen and defiance is not something Pinocchio can afford, but he’s only trying to keep the princess from finding some more unsavoury hiding spot, and he’s pretty sure her parents will believe it, in the unlikely event they come looking here.

Especially the king. The king’s always nice to him, and he seems endlessly amused by his daughter’s shenanigans, as if he saw something in her other people can’t notice.

His room is not in a state fit to be seen by a princess, some might say, with half-whittled wooden blocks and clothes laying strewn all over the floor and what little furniture he has, but Pinocchio has seen Emma’s chambers and playroom a few times, and they weren’t faring much better. Besides, the girl takes it all in with wide, excited eyes, and plops down next to his bed, picking up a carved bird and turning it over in her hands.

“We should have a bit more time. No one will think to come up here” he says, sitting down beside her.

It’s a fair enough guess - in the unlikely event that the guards came to search the workshop, they’d never believe their princess capable of entering someone’s private apartments, even if they’re technically family friends. And if he hears someone entering, he can always go back downstairs and direct them somewhere else. He’s gotten better at the whole misleading-without-lying thing, what with the shame of his nose, still fresh in everyone’s mind even years after the fact.

“Thank you” Emma replies, clearly relieved, and shuffles closer to him, her shoulder brushing against his.

Her blonde hair is as tangled as a bird’s nest - one must wonder where she might have stuck her head, before deeming the workshop a safe enough place to hide. Pinocchio pulls at the skewed ribbon that’s still making a valiant effort to keep it all together, undoing the knot, and then busies himself by setting it to rights, pulling frazzled strands away from Emma’s eyes. He has no doubt the Queen and her maids would do a far more elegant job, but he trusts himself to be able to make the younger girl look presentable, in case someone decides to stop by and check if the princess has indeed been kidnapped by an unexpected evildoer.

Emma lets him fuss without so much as a complaint, as though it were the most natural thing in the world – and it might as well be, after all the years they’ve spent running and play-fighting and hauling each other up after a scuffle. The wooden toy is still in her hands, and she twirls it between her fingers, humming what she must believe to sound like birdsong.

After a moment, though, she moves, scuttling sideways until she’s sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest. It makes his work just that little bit harder, but he doesn’t dare ask her to move, lest it might break the spell. Her small body is a warm, welcome weight on his own, and there’s such trust in the way Emma gravitates around him he thinks he could sit where he is forever, courtly responsibilities be damned.

And besides, it’s…it’s nice. It’s quiet, more than anything else, a pleasant change of pace compared to what tends to happen around his house – there is rarely space for anything but chaos in the workshop, with people flitting in and out to commission jobs and his father grumbling and, on the worst of days, Jiminy having to step in to play peacemaker for the two of them as they bicker and squabble and then fall into rancorous silence. Even the usual hustle and bustle down in the courtyard seems somewhat muffled down, as though they had wrapped themselves in a protective cocoon, a shell no one outside their bubble might be able to break open.

They stay like that for a while, straining to listen for any noise coming from the corridor. After a certain point, though, it’s clear than no one will come snooping in anytime soon, and Pinocchio is all but bursting with curiosity about those visitors he wasn’t allowed to meet, so he asks: “Well, what did these boys say of our Enchanted Forest, then? It must have been terrible, for you to be so outraged.”

“It was” the princess says, pouting. “They said it’s all in ruins still, and that Papa looks half a beggar and not like a king should be. And they said Mama has a weird name. As if they’re the ones to talk – all their names sound weird, and ugly, too.”

And _there_ ’s something Pinocchio can’t not find at least a little bit amusing. “Weirder than mine, princess?”

“Your name’s not weird. It’s _your_ name” Emma replies, sounding almost scandalized by the implication that there might be something wrong with him.

Oh, he has to laugh.

“Do you know what it means?” When she shakes her head, he continues, careful not to pull at the knots in her hair: “You know those little nuts you find in pinecones? _Pinocchio_ is the name for one of them, in my father’s mother tongue.”

“Oh.” She ponders on it for a while, brow furrowed. “I still like it, though. It’s a good name for you.”

“So you’re saying I look like a pine nut?” He says, imitating the pretentious, snotty voice all the courtiers seem to use. “Careful, my lady, I might take offence.”

Emma giggles, pressing her tiny hands on her mouth to muffle the noise. “Stop it! It’s true! I like it very much.”

Pinocchio settles back against the bed, smiling so wide his cheek almost hurt. “Thank you, princess. Yours is a very pretty name as well.”

“It is. Mama chose it, and she likes pretty things a lot” she says, nodding gravely. Then, after a thoughtful pause: “Why did your father choose your name?”

“He used to know an entire family of people named Pinocchio when he was younger. And I was made of wood when I was born, remember? Maybe he thought a name related to trees would be a good choice.”

“Oh.” The princess shrugs, as if it weren’t that big of a deal. “Right. I forgot.”

And that’s another reason why Pinocchio likes Emma so much. Nobody simply _forgets_ what he was before: on the contrary, sometimes it feels like everyone knows his story better than he does. It’s his fault, mostly, for letting slip more than necessary about his origins when he was younger, trying to impress other children who in turn spread the tale far and wide, but he has a feeling it wouldn’t have made that great a difference if he’d kept his mouth shut. It can’t possibly have been just him planting that seed, not with so many people knowing his name and his past mistakes, watching him intently and waiting for him to slip up and return to his bad habits.

Blue and Father do it more than anyone else, and he knows, he _knows_ they mean well, but it’s maddening all the same. Most children get away with acting up once in a while, but it does not apply to him, since he’s always too scared it will be the time he pushes it too far and gets punished for it.

Emma, though, is a completely different matter. She knows he was a puppet first – she has begged the story out of him more than once, as though it were some grand adventure and not the source of the nightmares he gets every other night – but it matters little, because to her it’s all wonderfully distant, something she has no memory of at all. To her, he’s not a reformed naughty boy: he’s just Pinocchio, who lets himself be dragged into any game that might strike her fancy and whittles toys for her out of scraps of wood.

She sees no reason not to trust him, even though there’s no lack of evidence against it, and for that alone Pinocchio might just let her hide from potential suitors for the next twenty years of her life.

“Why did they say that?” Emma speaks up again, dragging him away from his thoughts.

“Why did who say what, princess?”

“Those boys. Why did they say such bad things about Misthaven?”

Pinocchio shrugs. “Maybe it’s better than their homes and they didn’t want to feel ashamed. People say things they don’t mean when they’re jealous.”

“But you’ve seen lots of places. Were they better than here?”

Most places he saw he wouldn’t wish Emma to set foot in for the rest of her life, but he can’t say that. He’s always spun the tale of his journey in brighter colours, to prevent her from dreaming about children screaming in pain as they turn into donkeys. Good stories ought to have a morale, Jiminy used to say when he was younger, and Pinocchio might not be the best influence a little girl should have in her life, but he’s found _it doesn’t count as a lie as long as it keeps Emma safe_ works wonders as a personal morale.

He just grins, then, grateful that she can’t see how forced it looks, and says: “Well, the dogfish’s belly was uglier for sure. And the castle wouldn’t have fit in there anyway.”

“Did it smell?”

“Oh, yes. Like the kitchens when they’re making fish stew.” Neither of them is supposed to know the kitchens that well, or how to sneak into it at all - it’s not a place for princesses who get enough food at every meal, or for boys who don’t want to be deemed naughty. But the serving girls are willing to turn a blind eye, provided the intruders in question don’t get underfoot, and some cooks appreciate polite children who say _please_ and _thank you_ enough to give them sweet treats, even if it might spoil their lunch.

Emma wrinkles her nose. “Gross. I’m glad you didn’t stay there.”

“Me too, princess. Me too.”

There’s another lull of silence, one where they both seem deeply lost in thought. Or perhaps that’s just Pinocchio’s mind playing tricks on him – there’s no way Emma might be as ill at ease as he always feels after someone brings up his past misadventures. She’s ensconced in her perfect little world, with pretty dresses and rich banquets, where a boy no older than she poking fun at her home is enough to cause offence; he’s the one who never seems to stop thinking, pondering and remembering and laying awake at night, too old to sneak in his father’s bed after a bad dream.

He could call it unfair, if he so wished, but he wouldn’t have it any other way even if he had a chance to change things. Better him than anyone else, he wagers. Better him that _Emma_ , most of all, who he cares about more than he does a score of other people.

He’s still turning the thought around in his brain when the princess yawns, wide like a cat, breaking through whatever reverie he’d dug himself into. “I’m hungry.”

Pinocchio smiles, despite himself. That serves him right for bringing food up. “How long has it been since you ate?”

“We had supper. I was supposed to have tea with the guests, but I left before they served it. I should have stayed. Daddy said there would be pastries I’d never tried before, to honor the people that came to visit us.”

Teatime must have been ages ago, even considering they must have delayed it for a while in the hope of finding the missing heir to the throne. What was left must have already been cleared away, so they have no chance to find something to eat, even if they were to make their way to the dining hall immediately.

Unless…

“Perhaps there’s still some cake left in the kitchen” Pinocchio suggests nonchalantly. He smooths a hand down Emma’s hair, giving a critical one-over to his finished work. The Queen’s coiffeurs would laugh themselves silly, but it’s passable enough, considering his fingers are used to dealing with coarser materials. “There. All set.”

“Thank you.” Emma touches the back of her head, checking absent-mindedly on the restored state of her hair. Then she whirls around, gaping at him in outrage, as if she’d just realized what he’s said. “But we can’t go down to the kitchens! Someone will see us, and then they’ll tell my parents. I don’t want them to find me.”

“You’ll have to go back to Their Graces at some point, princess” he reminds her gently. “Best to get something to eat first. And I know the fastest way to the pantry. Nobody will see us until we’re sitting at the table, cake in hand.”

He pushes himself up to his feet, dusting off his pants and offering her a hand. She lets herself be pulled upright, but only begrudgingly, regaling with such a thunderous look that Pinocchio can barely keep himself from laughing in her face.

“Besides” he offers, as a token of peace “I can always say that it was my fault, and that I got you lost around the castle while we were playing. That’ll save your face.”

Emma’s expression falls immediately, shifting to one of pure horror. “You can’t do that! Blue said you shouldn’t lie anymore. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

As if he needed a reminder. “I will get in trouble anyway, for not taking you back as soon as I found you. Might as well help you while I’m doing it.”

She shakes her head furiously. “You can’t. _I_ ’ll tell Mama I ordered you to help me hide. That way it won’t be your fault – you’ll be my subject one day, you have to follow my orders.”

It’s hardly the most foolproof of plans, but Pinocchio’s touched regardless. “Thank you, Your Future Majesty. That’s very sweet.”

“But” Emma adds, crossing her arms against her chest, a stubborn set to her jaw “you have to promise me you’ll take me with you the next time you go travelling somewhere. Some good places, though. Even the ones those boys come from. Not the dogfish.”

Pinocchio bows his head in mock-reverence, a hand on his heart. “I promise. But I’m not sure I’ll go anywhere ever again. The Enchanted Forest is good enough for me.”

She shrugs dismissively. “Then I’ll order you to do that, too. I’ll do a royal progress and you’ll have to come along, like Mama’s maids do.”

Pinocchio laughs uproariously, caught off guard. He’s still chuckling when he squats down, and Emma smiles back, tentatively, as though checking whether she’s stepped over some line.

“I’m not sure I’d be a very good maid” he says, a mischievous glint to his eyes as he turns his back to her. “But maybe I could offer myself as a noble steed?”

Emma shrieks in delights and clambers up his back, locking her thin arms around his neck, journey projects forgotten. It’s not hard to stand up again, even with the added weight: Emma’s a skinny slip of a girl, and he’s tall for his age besides – he’ll surpass his father in height one day, everyone says so, to Geppetto’s great dismay.

And even if that were not the case, Pinocchio muses as he heads downstairs, clicking his tongue to mimic the sound of a trotting horse…well, he’d probably just do it anyway, he wagers. It’s not proper for boys his age to let little girls cajole them into submission, but it shouldn’t be proper to try to push for betrothals for children as young as Emma, either, so he’s hardly the only one in the castle whose behavior should be frowned upon.

Besides, Pinocchio can’t find it in himself to care either way. Not with Emma’s laughter ringing in his ears, drowning every other sound and making him feel as light and careless as he hasn’t been in days, and the promise of cake leftovers ahead of him, the thrill of swiping them off plates not wearing off even though he’s old enough to know better.

A prize worth missing on a parade of stuffy noblemen, he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Let's get this rodeo back onto the road!  
> As you might recall from the first story in this series, if you've read it, my plan was always to write more fics about these two baby idiots in the Wishverse. It might have taken me a bit, but as you can see I finally managed to polish off the second installment and put it out in the world. I'm aware it's a small niche of content, but as I'm trying to boost my creative self esteem and write things that make me happy, I have no intention of stopping anytime soon.  
> Mangiafuoco is the canon character from whom Stromboli (SIGH) was drawn. The same applies to the dogfish, whose Disney counterpart was called Monstro (hope I got the name right - sorry, I've never watched that movie in English so I don't know if my sources were correct). There are probably other references to the book timeline of events peppered in for you to find - I'm planning to sit down and draft some fic about my headcanons about August's story, which will hopefully merge movie, show and book canon evenly, and this was meant as a trial for that as well as a story in its own right.  
> Thank you for reading this! Stay safe, stay warm and stay hydrated.


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